


Out of the Iron

by Jokemon



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon Colosseum & XD
Genre: Abusive Trainer, Abusive Trainer gets wrecked, How It's Made: Shadow Pokemon Edition, Shadow Pokemon, Team Cipher (Pokemon), cipher deserter, cipher peon - Freeform, electrike - Freeform, orre region
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jokemon/pseuds/Jokemon
Summary: A little character study on an original Cipher Peon; just one of many. He doesn't have the power or the acumen to change the world, to erase the mark Cipher made. But maybe he can start, just a little bit, with a friend, some greasy breakfast, and a ticket out of Orre.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, full disclosure, I haven't played any games since Gen 5 and am completely out of the loop, but I'm starting to learn. I really like Cipher and their whole 'we literally abuse pokemon into being killing machines hello we're the undisputed bottom of the moral barrel' aspect that they held for, like, a decade before Gen 5. Plus, I haven't been able to get this idea out of my head.

A gloved hand reached up to the table, swatting first at a screeching, ringing alarm clock, and then struggling to turn it, snap the switch off, and grab a bottle. Bleary eyes focused on the bottle; empty, but for a single, lonely drop that drifted around the base as he swirled it like a car in a streetrace. Empty. Right. Just his luck. He realized why it was empty when he sat up and felt the nails rattling in his head. He half-heartedly tossed the bottle across the room— damn thing couldn’t even have the nerve to break— and stumbled over to the window. He could have just looked at the clock, but he didn’t have time nor the mental capacity for those things. 

He opened the blinds.

When he got up from the ground and his head stopped pounding, he took note of the fact that it was another bright, sunny, _incredibly_ dry day in Orre. Keeping one eye shut and his head tilted away, he closed them again. Okay. Take stock. Ignoring the white armor hung up on the wall, he looked around the upscale hotel room, and began to remember. 

He hadn’t really, entirely _meant_ to join Cipher. These things just happened. He’d wanted to be a Pokemon master, but Orre didn’t exactly have any leagues to speak of, nothing he could make a _career_ of no matter how much he loved Pokemon, and his family needed money, and Cipher was offering, well, _quite a lot_ at the time, and— 

Well. Once you were in, you were in, and that was that. When they handed out Pokemon, said _these’ll win you fights_, how was he supposed to know what they were doing? He was just a peon. _We closed the door to their hearts_, they called it, whatever that was supposed to mean. They insisted on that kind of talk. 

He was a good grunt. He did his job, he stole Pokemon and he hurt the people he was supposed to, when he was told to, and he ignored the little voice in his head that said _this isn’t right, something's WRONG with these Pokemon_ because, I mean, when your family finds out you’re in Cipher, tells you they don’t never wanna see you again, moves off to Hoenn to get away, where else do you go? 

You sink yourself into your work, get good at it, real good— you ignore the whispers they’ve caught one, two, three, four of the Legendary birds, twisted them into things that shouldn’t be, because your job’s to make sure people’re paying the money they should be, not to ask questions. An’ eventually, you get good. Good enough to learn how they "closed the door". 

'Cause-- what you do, see, is you take a Pokemon, and you hurt it. You hurt it _bad_, not enough to cripple but enough to make it afraid of you. Then you give it to someone else, let them build up trust. Let it get to know them. Then they hurt it bad, too. Worse, even.

And you keep hurting it, through trials and experiments and just plain old-fashioned _beating_, until all it knows is fear and betrayal. An’ then you keep hurting it until all that fear turns to hate, to obedience, a willingness to do anything as long as the pain just stops. And when you learn something like that, well...

Well. Then he looked at his Pokemon, both of them so angry and hateful, and when the red-haired kid with the Snag Machine came, he didn’t even put up that big a fight. _Take them_, he thought. _Fix them_. He headed back to his little base, feeling as empty inside as his pokeballs. On the way back, though, a curious thing happened. 

A kid, maybe fifteen, with an Electrike. Not much younger than him. It had knocked something over, maybe a sign or its owner’s scooter, he didn’t know, he was a _little_ drunk, but cut him a break, everyone in Orre was a little drunk at some point or another on account of them livin' in Orre. 

The point is, the kid scowled, said _Bad, Loki!_ Reared back and kicked it. The Electrike yelped, flew maybe five feet, and landed in the dirt, rolled a bit, and just laid there. Breathing. 

It just took it. That meant Loki (he assumed that was his name), was used to it, and that meant— he just saw, you know, he just saw the process of closing the door, the way they hurt those Pokemon, and, and that just— the kid turned. 

Saw him, full Cipher armor, looming above him, barely had time to get scared, barely had time for his eyes to widen before the fist hit him right in his ungrateful, ugly little _mouth_, before one of his incisors hit the sand, 'fore he fell to the ground, unconscious. “Yeah,” Anderson said, “doesn't feel too good, does it?” 

He found the pokeball assigned to Loki, took it but didn’t call him back to it. Picked him up instead, carried him back to their little outpost— they had them all over Orre, see— and when his boss raised an eyebrow, told him it was too hurt to do _anything_ with ’til they healed it. So he'd heal it, take it over to one of their drop-sites bound up all nice-like for the scientists-- and he gagged a little, like those sons of bitches had anything to do with _science_\-- to pick up and experiment on.

When his boss turned around, he knocked him out, took his key, took whatever money they’d hidden away to send to the higher-ups. Took it all. Ran. Hid in Pyrite Town because oh _Arceus_ he’d just deserted Cipher, stolen from them, but hey Pyrite Town was a mess and full of ‘noble rogues’ and maybe he could change his class to Chaser or at least disguise himself there and and and—. 

They’d have him killed. Painfully. Fed to a Shadow Pokemon, maybe. He couldn’t go anywhere, least of all a Pokemon center. So he spent his time nursing Loki back to health the old-fashioned way. Money wasn’t an issue, not for the time being. 

A week later, when he was gettin' real desperate, Cipher collapsed. Their leader? Arrested. Their Lugia? Snagged. Ardos, son of Greevil? Promising revenge. Beat by a _kid_ with more skill in his pinky than Anderson probably had in his whole body. So he moved to the Pyrite Super Grand Hotel Blah Blah Long Name and got blind stinking _drunk_. Nobody asked your age in Pyrite Town, and so what if he wasn’t exactly 21 yet? 

And that lead him here, clutching his head and eating the greasiest breakfast he could order off the Room Service menu, and looking at the single note his drunk self had written on his phone while he fed scraps of bacon to Loki. 

“cnt stay in orre. cosp will crack down on cipher nown if they dont chipper n hardcore ardo will find me”

Anderson jammed a piece of greasy maybe-bacon in his mouth and crunched, dragging his fingers down his face. “What do you think, Loki?” He asked. He wasn’t sure where he'd gotten it, but he was wearing a Chaser outfit now— leather outfit, gloves, scarf tied around his pale neck (the Cipher outfit didn’t exactly allow for a lot of tanning). 

Loki snarfed down another piece of bacon like it was his last and looked up at him. To be honest, he’d only gotten halfway through it, and food made him sick right now, an’— he just slid the plate down to the floor with those excuses and let Loki eat the rest of it. 

Loki ate like every meal would be ripped out of his grasp, and Anderson really tried not to think too hard about that, 'cause if he did he'd start thinking about Loki's previous trainer, and then he'd start contemplating murder, and that was a useless endeavor until he saw the kid again. He grabbed a pencil, a notepad, and began his list. 

_Kanto: Team Rocket’s there, I think. They’d_ kill _for Snag Machine Tech, and they probably wouldn’t be too damn choosey about how they got it. I ain’t know shit, but I’d like my fingers to remain intact._

__

__

_Johto: Same story._

_Hoenn: …too much water. _

That was the reason he was going with. The way Loki was looking at him suggested that he knew there was something more than that, but damnit, he wasn’t about to spill his guts to his new…friend? “Shut up an’ eat your eggs,” he said, pushing the greasy plate further towards the Electrike. 

_Sinnoh: Ain't there a cult here? Champ’s cool, though. Maybe. _

_Unova: How’s that song go? Just a small town Mon? There’s no real reason not to go, but at the same time I don’t really want to leap headfirst into such a massive metropolitan area._

_Kalos: Maybe. If I want to stuff myself on baguettes._

_Alola: What is this place? I’m looking it up now. …Islands, huh? Cipher’s got_ no presence _there at all_. 

“What do you think, buddy? Beach vacation? We’ve certainly got the funds for it,” he said, gesturing at the veritable pile of ill-gotten Pokedollars sitting in the corner. Was it still ill-gotten if he’d re-gotten them from bad people? Well, probably, since he wasn’t exactly giving them back to the original owners. “Sippin’ martinis, gettin’ into fights on the beach, figuring out where we’ll spend the rest of our lives while we relax on the sand?” 

Loki snarfed down the last syrup-coated pancake, looked up at him, and burped a little. 

“That’s the spirit. I’ll book us some tickets,” he said, snatching up his phone and beginning the work. There wasn't much to the process; tickets were freely available, seeing how most people didn't go in nor out of Orre often besides sailors. “We’ve just gotta…gotta head west. To Gateon. Maybe we get drinks at the Krabby Club, huh?” He ruffled Loki’s fur, ignoring the little crackles of electricity that arced through his fingers like so many static shocks when he disturbed the fur. That was better than the first time he tried to pet him. 

“The next ship to Alola… huh. Looks like it’s one a’ them fancy multi-stop things. Ship to Unova, plane to Alola, then as long in paradise as this’ll buy us.” He raked a hand through the chips, letting them clatter against the table, and began to stuff them in his bag. 

Along with the Cipher armor. He’d keep that as a reminder of what he should never, _ever_ do again. Also, maybe worth something? The tech in the helmet told him what Pokemon his opponents had. He tugged his scarf up over his face, booked the tickets, and held up his single Pokeball. “You good to go in?” He asked, and Loki stared up at him for a long minute. “No? Okay,” he said, hooking the ball once more on his belt. “You ride with me, then.” 

He tossed a hundo onto the front desk, his fee for the night, and stepped out to his bike. He called it his bike, but really it was more of a scooter. Also? Not his. Hadn’t been for months. Electrike hopped onto the basket on the front; he hopped on, gunned it, and screeched out of Pyrite Town. West, west to Gateon Port. Though the sands, the green— he noticed another vehicle behind him. Not unusual in Orre, but the fact that it belonged to a certain red-haired kid caught his eye. What was his name? Michael?

_Keep calm. He don’t recognize you. You got your face out ’n everything, and last time he saw you you was in full outfit._

True to his thoughts, Michael only offered him a passing wave before peeling off and heading in another direction, towards the region’s Pokemon Lab. Cool. Okay. 

Anderson revved the gas and screeched through the sands straight for Gateon Port. “Maybe we’ll ride on the _Libra_,” he said. No response from Loki. “Too soon? Yeah, I reckon it is. Can’t think of many other teams with a body count that includes a literal boatload.”

He grabbed his bag, and left the bike there. Whoever needed it would take it, he was sure. They had a few hours before the boat he’d booked the ticket for had to go. The Krabby Club, maybe? Razell and Dazell always did put on entertaining shows. The door swung open, and oh, _Arceus_. 

There, on the stage. A man with limbs like a tumbleweed, a massive Pokeball afro, dancing, singing on-stage. It wasn’t that he was bad, but Anderson knew who this was. It could only really be one man. Everyone at Cipher had heard of him, either met him in the case of the old guard or just— _heard of him_. Anderson slammed the door to the Krabby Club shut, and caught a glimpse of himself in the polished metal for a second— black, spiky hair, styled like a Chaser’s. Green eyes. Freckles, a light dusting— and then he turned, and they sat and waited for a few hours staring at the water. 

Still better than Miror B.

It wasn’t exactly hard to get on the boat; they had their tickets, and security wasn’t the greatest in Orre. But as Gateon Port grew smaller and smaller behind them, as they sat on deck and he ran his fingers through Loki’s sparking, tingling fur— for the first time, Anderson felt that maybe everything would be okay. 

Maybe he could start again, him and his new friend.


	2. Burns The Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson realizes a terrible mistake, has a panic attack, and takes a nice, long look at part of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again. This part's some fun, some realization of what he's done and how screwed he might possibly be, and a little background on Anderson's life. TW for panic attacks, if that gets to you.

Anderson watched the port fade into nothing behind them, a little dot of cheerful sailors. With it, he left his life behind, buried in the sands. Not that there’d ever been much of one. All he had were his bags; one, loaded with clothes and money. The other, the only thing of value he had left from his time with his family, a beat-up old guitar and a bottleneck slide. 

After a few minutes leaning over the railing, he jerked his head towards a set of stairs. “I hear this place has meals,” he said, and _that_ got Loki’s attention. “’s one of the higher-class ones. I got us in good.” Faster than his eye could follow, Loki was down the stars, claws clacking against the wood. Anderson shrugged, hands in his pockets, and stroked down the stairs, where he found Loki accosted by a woman in an official uniform. 

“You!” She said. “Is this— is this your Electrike?” _Awful pretty_ was the first thing he thought, followed by _that's impolite, boy._

“Yuuuup,” he drawled, letting the vowel hang in the air and come crashing down to earth with the plosive, like he was popping gum. 

“Sir, you can’t leave your Pokemon unattended. This isn’t Orre,” she said. Ah. Unovan accent. Of course— the ship’d come from there, would be headin’ back, and he couldn’t just up and let his Pokemon wander around anymore. He chose to tactically ignore the veiled jab at his home region (not that he minded, it wasn’t for everyone by any means). 

Okay, Anderson. Time to turn on that charm. “You got it, miss. Sorry, I’m a lil’ out of it. Been a while since I ate anything but sand ’n rocks.” She didn’t _laugh_, per se, but he saw the way she relaxed a little when he strolled over to pick up Loki, the way her lips turned up just a little. 

Unova folk. Open books. Then again, he supposed most folk would be open books compared to the folk he’d spent his life running with, what with them being criminals and all. “You wouldn’t happen to know where an Orre boy like me could get his hands on some proper food, d’you?” 

“Oh!” Her face brightened. “Yes, actually. They’re serving lunch right now— I can lead you to it, if you want.” 

“That would be lovely, miss,” said he, holding Loki close and following her to a lovely little room, lined with tables set with meals, hot and freshly prepared. “Thank you, miss,” he said as she peeled off, presumably to do whatever employees did. 

Already, people were filtering in— well-dressed people, at that. He looked down at his own Chaser outfit, rough and tumble and good for fighting in, and then back up. That was— he recognized the classes of a couple trainers. Rich Boys. Ladies. High-class people. “Loki, I think we may have made a tactical error.”, he whispered.

Loki looked up at him, one eyebrow raised as if to say _no shit_? 

“I booked us tickets to a boatfulla _snobs_,” he finished, and sat down. He recognized Kalosian, Unovan, Glarian accents— and not a single Orre to be found. Tourists, maybe? He was pretty sure they came for the pilgrimage to the Relic Stone and to see the ancient ruins scattered around Orre. He wondered if they'd be so eager if they knew that _everyone_ who travelled Orre had seen the ruins, because most of them had ducked inside to avoid sandstorms.

He felt out of place as he looked. He hadn’t even put away his bags, for Arceus’s sake, and people were already starting to stare at him. He could hear the whispers, flitting around the room like birds— or like bullets. For the first time in a long time, he felt— he felt _embarrassed._ Tourists were nothing new, he’d stolen from them once or twice, but— but that wasn’t an option now, see, and he couldn’t intimidate them unless he wanted a run in with the Unova Police who he was _sure_ couldn’t be bribed as easy as Orre’s, and—

_Why’s he dressed like that?_

_I’d call that uncultured. Does he not know any better—_

_Is he the help?_

_Can’t be. Look how he’s dressed._

_Is it really okay for him to be here?_

He hunched over his lunch, digging in as fast as he could. Was he holding the spoon right? Was he using the right one? Wait— why did it even _matter?_ Anger boiled over in him like bile, like stomach acid at 3 AM gettin’ in your nose and burning and burnin’ with no end in sight. These people didn’t mean nothin’, didn’t know a thing about Orre, about _him—_

He felt fur against his leg, and looked down. Loki was pushed up against him, not looking at him but there nonetheless. Protective, like he knew what these people were saying. …they said Pokemon could understand humans. Maybe that was actually true. All the anger that had been bubbling in him faded slowly, and he reached down to scratch him behind the ears. Gentle, gentler than Loki had probably ever been touched before. 

No electricity greeted him. He called to the waiter. “Just bring me all the courses. I’ll take ‘em to my room. I’d like to be alone.” 

“Ah, right away, sir. What about the meal for your Pokemon? They eat their food after their owners—” 

“He’ll have what I’m having, thank you.” Whatever they had instead of Pokeblocks wouldn’t be near good enough.

“Very well, sir.”

Back in his room, away from the stares, he split his food in half and gave the bigger portion to Loki, and stared out the window, watched the seas roll past. Free. Free, for the first time, from Orre, from Cipher, from his past, from— anything. He could go anywhere. Do anything. Alola was so damn far from Orre that it boggled his mind. 

He laid on the bed and thought about what he could do, but what-ifs caught up to him, scrambled his thoughts like a Machamp trying to do Jenga. What if Cipher found him? What if Interpol wanted his head? What happened when the money ran out? It would, he knew, before long. Maybe a month, maybe two. Then what? 

Trapped in Alola? Worse places to be, certainly, but if he couldn’t leave the region, where would he go, what would he do, what would he do— the thoughts reached deep into his chest, his own little Shadowfication wrapping around his lungs and putting them in a vice, so that no matter how deep he’d breathe it wasn’t enough, left him light-headed, trembling, nauseous—

Then a weight on his chest. Loki, curled up and looking at him, full and content and sleepy. The world came back into focus, and he reached with a trembling hand to adjust some of his fur. Yeah. Loki was all he had left, Loki was all there was, and so— it didn’t matter what he did, as long as he did it with him. Yeah. Okay. Deep breaths. 

He rolled over, catching Loki and putting him beside him, ignoring the displeased jolt he got to peer at his Guitar bag. Gods, he’d almost forgotten about that. How long had it been since he busked? Three years? Deep breath. It was decent money, though Cipher was more so. But still, with busking, there were risks and rewards. Some days were more decent than others. One, he remembered, he’d come back with a case _full_ of Pokedollars, and his family had been _ecstatic_.

His little sister had jumped up and down, made him _promise_ to buy her ice cream when the sun came up again and it got achingly, burning hot, and he’d do it, right, he wouldn’t bail, wouldn’t take another day playing in the heat, would take a day off and spend it with her just the two of them like they used to and buy her ice cream did she mention that? 

Exhale. Deep breath. And he had— he’d taken her to the local parlor, and gotten cones bordering on outlandishly huge, walked through town. He’d lost half of his to the boiling concrete, but he’d been in such a good mood that they both just had a long, gut-bustin’ laugh over it and kept going, kept going until they’d taken all the sweetness the hot day had to offer and drained it dry. Come home after dark with sodas and unhealthy garbage food to snack on for the next couple days, bellies so full they hurt and cheeks aching from their laughter, drunk on the sugar high and crash when they flopped into their beds, said goodnight, and immediately passed out. 

Exhale. 

He stayed in that memory a good long time, until he was calm enough, and then picked up his guitar. Unclicked every latch on the case and lifted it out, real slow-like. Got used to the weight again, put his fingers to the strings, and began to pluck, one after the other. Even though his fingers hurt after a few minutes, though he screwed up notes here and there— he slid his way through an old favorite, a classic folk song of Orre, one with some bite to it.

It didn’t matter how good he was or not, because it calmed down Loki. “Not bad, huh?” he asked, setting it aside gently, and crawling into bed. A full belly, a warm bed, and the constant, quiet warmth of his companion lulled him to a gentle afternoon nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, he played Bane's Grave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YRgKVqul-H8
> 
> I didn't expect Anderson would have anxiety when I began, but here we are. I do love the mental image of the rough 'n tumble Orre boy trapped on a boat with a bunch of high-class people. If you like it, feel free to leave a comment; I THRIVE on that shit.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my best. I know Orre's based on the Wild West/Phoenix Arizona, hence the accent! There'll probably be more-- Orre's a real rough 'n tumble, violent kinda region-- crime's super common and the like, the people are rougher, and I figure they've probably got a bit of a nasty reputation among the other regions. I want to explore that.


End file.
